


Seams and Scars

by Andraste



Category: Dragon Age: Inquisition
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-08
Updated: 2015-06-08
Packaged: 2018-04-03 11:27:28
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,620
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4099321
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Andraste/pseuds/Andraste
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>After, during, before. Blackwall and Cadash try to keep things together.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Seams and Scars

**Author's Note:**

> Spoilers for the Blackwall romance. (And the rest of the game, for that matter.) Title taken from Vienna Teng's _Level Up_.

Malika was bound to ask eventually. She always wants to know everything. It's why she's good at her job, and not only the parts that involve killing demons and telling people what to do. He shouldn't be caught off-guard, but he's still trying to accept that he's in the Inquisitor's fancy quarters, in the Inquisitor's even fancier bed. That not five minutes before he was, in fact, in the Inquisitor. There's moonlight streaming through the window, and she's idly running a hand through his beard. This has to be some kind of dream, although this is certainly a lot nicer than any of the things he normally dreams about.

"I don't even know your first name," she says.

He shifts uneasily. "Lots of Wardens give up their names when they join the order."

"I thought that was usually their _last_ names," she says, propping herself up on one elbow. He can see the curves of her breasts in the dim light, and it's almost enough to make him think he could just roll over and have her again right now, as if he were still twenty years old. "Although 'Blackwall' is certainly worth keeping."

"You think so?"

"It suits you." She's quiet for a moment, and he thinks she might actually drop the subject, but of course it's never that easy. "So why give up your first name? Was it terrible?"

"No," he says. "I just ... didn't want it any more." It's the truth, as far as it goes.

"See, now I _have_ to know. Is it Horatio?"

"Really?" he said, amused in spite of the situation, " _that's_ your first guess?"

"I knew a Horatio once. Had a beard almost as fantastic as yours. Wolfgang? Bernard? Eugene? Marmaduke? Come on, am I getting warm?"

"Not even close."

"It wasn't ... Dorian? Because I can see why you'd want to keep that a secret."

Now he's actually laughing. "Definitely not that."

"Sean? Michael? Luke? Thomas?"

She must see some reaction then, because she stops asking, apparently satisfied. "You don't have to tell me," she says. "I know the important part."

He shuts his eyes, and wishes that were true. This was a mistake. "I really shouldn't be here," he says.

She punches him, gently, in the shoulder. "Enough of that. It was getting tedious _before_ the sex, and I can't believe you regret it."

He takes her hand and kisses the back of it. He should, but he doesn't. Not enough to stop him from coming back for more, at least. "Certainly not, my lady. I only hope that you never do."

***

"You're an idiot, you know."

He arches his back and tries to move his hips. She has one hand down the front of his trousers, has been stoking him for an agonisingly long time, nowhere near hard enough for him to come. Apparently she saved him from the noose so that she could torture him to death. This is the first thing she's said since he walked through the door and she leapt on him like a varghest falling on a potential meal.

"A bit worse than that, I think," he gasps. He feels dazed all over again. He didn't expect to be alive, let alone sitting on her desk with important Inquisitorial paperwork scattered all over the floor and Malika balanced awkwardly in his lap. "Do we really have to talk about this _right now?_ " He has no right to protest, but he's not in any condition to discuss anything, let alone this.

"I'm not angry about what you did. That's not my place. I'm angry that you didn't trust me. That you still think I'm too good for you."

Even her hand still moving on his cock isn't a distraction from that. He uses his own hand to hold hers still. "You know what I've done now. How could I possibly think otherwise?"

She pulls away from him and climbs off his lap. He doesn't stop her, although more than one part of him wants to. He was right when he told her that he couldn't let her go voluntarily.

She walks over to the balcony doors, although she doesn't open them. "Before the breach, I worked for the Carta. I didn't exactly spend my time escorting Chantry sisters across the road. Do you really think my hands are cleaner than yours?" Perhaps to make a point, she rubs her hands on her trousers. The people who do the laundry must hate her, although they probably hate the people who keep bleeding all over her even more.

"It's not the same," he protests.

"Because there were children? Because you did it for money?” She snorts, but she doesn't look at him. “It wasn't any different for me."

She doesn't talk about her past any more than he does, and he's never felt that he was in a position to pry. Maybe he isn't the only one with secrets, after all. He awkwardly hitches his trousers back over his hips so that he can cross the room without them falling down around his ankles, and goes to put his arms around her shoulders.

"If you want to tell me, you can tell me. It was stupid of me not to think -"

She looks up at him, and her smile is suddenly back. It never stays gone for very long. "Yeah, well, we went over the part where you're an idiot already. Lucky you're good for _something_." She shoves him down onto the bed, and this time she doesn't torture him for long. Even though he shouldn't be here, he can't help but be happy that he is.

***

"I heard a song about you today."

The afternoon after the world doesn't end, when everyone is still nursing their hangovers and their bruises, he retreats to the stables to find something to take his mind off what comes next. Cole saw the wooden griffin and asked him if he could make a pull-along duck. While Blackwall has no idea why the boy would want such a thing, it should keep his hands busy until … well, _until_.

At first he just stares at her. “A song?”

"Come to the tavern!"

With that, she practically skips out of the door. He's in no mood for it - still exhausted, he wants no company but hers - but she's grinning so brightly that he follows her anyway.

Inside, the bard is singing about killing an Archdemon. He only catches the last part, but as soon as she finishes and takes a bow, the crowd cheers drunkenly and claps until she starts again. Soon enough she notices who's standing in the doorway, waves theatrically in his direction and everyone applauds even louder. He feels his face get hot.

Malika has made herself comfortable on her usual stool, and waves him over. There's no privacy here, but it's so loud that their voices won't carry far.

'The Ballard of the Black Warden'? _Really_?"

"I'm pretty sure she meant it as a compliment," Malika says.

"It wasn't even a real Archdemon!"

"Well, you're not a real Warden, so I guess that works out." Months later, she jokes about it they way she does about everything. He's even stopped wincing visibly when she does.

"It didn't happen like that." The part where he rode on the dragon's back and stabbed it through the head is particularly ridiculous.

"I guess 'the dragon landed on top of the Inquisitor while Varric and Dorian drank every potion we were carrying and then fell over' didn't rhyme too well."

"I just kept my shield up and hacked away at its legs until it bled to death and stopped moving. Nobody wants to hear a song about that."

"So she took some artistic license. You killed a dragon, practically single-handed! Of course people are impressed."

"I was terrified the entire time. I thought it had killed you."

A dozen times, trying to get past its guard and hack through the thick hide, he'd wondered why he was even bothering. If she was dead, Corypheus had won, and what was even the point? He'd almost just lain down and died on the spot three or four times. Sheer stubbornness had carried him through when he had no hope left.

She puts her hand over his. "I'm harder to kill than that."

"I'm starting to think it's impossible." Perhaps the Maker really is watching out for them, even if she refuses to believe that she was chosen.

"I hope so." She stares into her drink, which is probably more sensible than consuming it. "I'll live forever and we'll just - keep doing this."

He doesn't know if she means drinking terrible beer in Skyhold's tavern, or being together, or slaying dragons for the Inquisition. Not that it matters. "I like the sound of that." They haven't talked about the fact that he's to go to the Wardens, now that all of this is over. He might die during the Joining. The real Blackwall had warned him that many people do. Somehow, though, it all feels worth it today.

Merrywen starts singing the song again - it's not a bad tune, and the crowd seem to enjoy it. "What do you say we get out of here?" she says. "I've heard this three times already, Cabot served up all the good booze last night and I really should go and check on Ser Nuggington. He must wonder what all the fuss is about."

"Well, we can't have the nuggalope getting lonely," he says, standing up. The crowd clap and whistle as he leaves the tavern, and he's not sure if it's because of the song or because he's following Malika. All he knows is that there's nowhere he'd rather go.


End file.
